


Slytherin Lovers

by Hijja



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 08:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14733209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hijja/pseuds/Hijja
Summary: Harry's mistake has cost his House a Quidditch game and the Cup, and it's up to Draco to punish him for his failure.





	Slytherin Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Written in June 2006 as a birthday fic for the loveliest Cutecoati, who also provided the summary. Thanks to thecurmudgeons for the once-over!

"It wasn't my fault!" Harry snarled when the carpeted door to the common room had fallen shut behind him, and he found himself facing a half-circle of angry housemates.

His nemesis, predictably at the head of the group, cocked his head. "You missed the Snitch and cost us the game and the Quidditch Cup, Potter!"

Harry's hand reflexively went up to the bump on his temple. "If those two losers-" he glowered at the bulky figures framing his accuser, "- had guarded my back instead of yelling at the Gryffindor captain, their Beaters wouldn't have mopped the pitch with me!" At least the duo had the decency to shuffle and look guilty.

The bruise on Harry's chest where the second Bludger had impacted still burned, but it was the scrape on his head that left him with a pounding headache.

"I've seen you catch the Snitch with a broken arm in second year," Draco Malfoy sneered. "What distracted you? The pair of tits on the Gryffindor Seeker?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry snapped.

He caught Blaise Zabini's dirty look over the heads of some younger Slytherins and groaned inwardly. Zabini had the hots for the Weaslette, and of course he would believe that Harry kept crossing him on purpose. They had a similar taste in girls - first Cho Chang, now Ginny Weasley, whose soft spot for Harry was an open secret, much to the chagrin of her brother. And although Harry's short fling with Chang last year had been miserable, Zabini had become rather shirty with him lately. Heck, Harry thought with a side glance at Malfoy, the fact that they also had similar tastes in boys didn't help either.

"Nah," Everard Jugson threw in. "Even Potter wouldn't go after a blood traitor like Weasley."

Harry's head snapped around. "I am a blood traitor, Jugson. Want to make something of it? Wizard's duel, tomorrow night in the old Defence classroom?"

The seventh-year pulled his mouth into an ugly grimace. "You won't be up to any duelling after we're done with you, Potter."

Harry straightened, stressing his recently-gained height. "I've fought off one of your dad's Death Eater cronies after duelling Voldemort himself at fourteen," he said coolly, ignoring Jugson's furious scowl and the gasps that inevitably followed the Dark Lord's name. "You I can handle with one hand spelled to my back."

"Enough," Malfoy interrupted, stepping bodily between Harry and the glowering seventh-year, forcing Jugson backwards. "I'll be your second if it comes to that, Potter, but right now it's your abysmal performance on the pitch we're concerned with."

"If he's got a concussion, perhaps he should go and see Pomfrey before you tear him to pieces," Millicent Bulstrode commented from the sidelines.

Harry gave her a grateful look, but she didn't smile back. They were friends, but Millicent, too, took Quidditch rather seriously.

"Forget Pomfrey," Malfoy said after a narrow-lidded glance at Harry's head. He waved his wand and summoned his prized master-level potions kit to him with a non-verbal charm that would have earned points from their Head of House if he were here to see it.

But of course Snape was nowhere in sight, after shooting his team and Harry in particular dirty looks as they limped off the pitch. Snape would leave it to his House to deal with Harry, and would undoubtedly find his own way of making Harry's life utter hell in the days to come.

Malfoy opened the kit and took out a phial of pale-golden liquid. Harry eyed it suspiciously, but relaxed when he recognised the mild anise smell the Prince had described wafting up when Malfoy undid the stopper. Malfoy handed the phial and a cotton pad to Pansy, who hovered dutifully nearby. Harry didn't particularly want to owe Malfoy more than he already did, but he wasn't going to pass up on a dose of Allsoothing Ointment at 120 Galleons a bottle. He was too groggy for pride, and judging from the look of things, he'd feel worse before the day wore off.

So he didn't protest when Pansy urged him down on a nearby armchair and swiped the potion-soaked pad over the bruise on his head. The ointment felt hot on his brow, then cooled rapidly and spread in a prickling sensation over his scalp that soothed his headache in seconds. He exhaled with relief.

Malfoy had watched Pansy's nursing like a cat watching a plump, savoury mouse. Now, he stretched luxuriously and leaned his hip against a table.

"You failed your House, Potter."

Harry groaned inwardly. "I was hit by two Bludgers!"

He'd gone into the match dead tired, always a bad idea when playing Quidditch against Gryffindor and their bastard of a captain. They'd all been sloppy after the Weasley twins had left school the year before, expecting the new Gryffindor line-up to be a pushover for its first few games. Harry should have known better - Ronald Weasley had trained up his underestimated new Beaters to go right after him.

"That was before you missed the Snitch." Malfoy shook his head. "You could've asked for an interruption, or to be taken off - Harper could hardly have played worse."

It stung, because Harper was a lousy reserve, but Harry couldn't deny that he deserved the dig. He'd been on edge ever since the disastrous end of the previous school year when Voldemort had sent him the vision of Sirius being trapped and tortured in the Department of Mysteries. Harry had run out of his OWLs blindly, desperate to go to the rescue, babbling half-mad to Draco when his yearmates came after him. Only to find himself Stunned, Petrified and bound to his bed with Pansy standing guard over him, wand in hand, while Draco and Zabini went to find Snape. Harry still woke up at night bathed in cold sweat at the thought of what might have happened if they hadn't stopped him. He'd have walked right into a Death Eater trap, and would have gotten himself and Merlin knew who else killed in the process. He'd come uncomfortably close to owing Malfoy a life debt.

As a consequence, Malfoy had become Prefect and Quidditch captain, while Harry got two nights' detention a week during which Snape set out to poke holes into his brain under the guise of teaching him Occlumency, taking his revenge for Harry snooping through his Pensieve the year before. And yet another awkward weekly session traipsing through memories of Lord Voldemort with the Headmaster. Who kept looking at Harry as if he expected him to sprout horns any minute. Dumbledore unsettled him, and he'd never managed to overcome his dislike for the man who was condemning him to endless, stifling summers at the Dursleys' each year, not even allowing him to spend time with his schoolmates or to keep Sirius company at Grimmauld Place.

That very same resentment had made Harry run away to spend his last week before the start of his second year at the Malfoys'. In retrospect, he couldn't quite blame Dumbledore for yelling at him about the prophecy in response to taking such a mad risk. Back then, however, he'd felt miserable and resentful and certain that Mr Malfoy wouldn't have wanted to explain to the Ministry why the Boy Who Lived had mysteriously died in his care. In fact, Harry kind of admired Lucius Malfoy, Death Eater or not. The Malfoys might sneer at Harry's pedigree, but would take him to the World Cup for the whole wizarding world to see to polish up Lucius's tarnished reputation. Lucius had never disguised the fact that while he approved of Harry's stormy friendship with Draco, he would still sacrifice Harry in a heartbeat should circumstances necessitate it. And he had, in the Riddle graveyard. Still, it was the sort of blunt honesty Harry missed in Dumbledore, who was unable to disguise that he, Harry, somehow fell short of his expectations.

Aware of Harry's gruelling workload, Draco had offered Harry the less stressful Chaser position the beginning of the school year. In retrospect, Harry was painfully aware that he shouldn't have snorted quite so contemptuously at the thought of Malfoy taking over as Seeker, even knowing that Snape would never have given his permission. It still rankled with Malfoy that he'd never been Harry's equal with the Snitch.

And now Malfoy had the prime opportunity to pay him back. The sly little bastard was leaning against a table, arms crossed in front of his chest, with a superior expression plastered on his pointy face.

"Yes, you fucked up all on your own, Potter - and you know the punishment."

Blood shot into Harry's face even as his hands went cold. Malfoy couldn't, he couldn't!

"I won Slytherin every match since-" he started, only to fall silent at Malfoy's raised hand.

"- since third year, I know," the bastard finished calmly. "Slytherin's star Seeker."

Malfoy would remember third year, of course. Marcus Flint had whipped them both with his belt over the sinks in the Slytherin changing room after Harry had fainted when the Dementors rounded the pitch, and Draco had gone after to break his fall, leaving the Snitch to drop right into Cedric Diggory's lap. That was the price for letting down your team. Draco had sobbed under the blows while Harry hadn't, silenced by a sick, shifting agony in the pit of his stomach, worse than the lashes themselves - the knowledge that it was his fault that Draco was being hurt. They hadn't lost a game since, but it had never been forgotten either.

Not even when they had taken their revenge last year, ousting Flint's old guard from the team - most spectacularly of all Montague in a splendid piece of intrigue involving a Vanishing Cabinet and setting up the Weasley twins as the ostensible culprits.

"You lost this game, Harry." The cool tone of Malfoy's voice reminded Harry of the fact that he'd messed up Malfoy's debut as captain in the process.

Malfoy threw a lazy glance over his shoulder at the crowd of Slytherins, whose expressions ranged from outrage to breathless excitement. Even those not interested in Quidditch seemed to stick around for another instalment of the infamous Potter/Malfoy feud. The fact that Harry and Malfoy were friends had never stopped Malfoy from challenging Harry every step of the way. High-maintenance in bed and out of it, Malfoy's great ambition was to rule Slytherin, and victory was not complete unless it included the Boy Who Lived.

"Are you going to refuse your captain?" Malfoy asked, in the silky voice he always used when he'd set a plot into motion. Harry gulped. A surreptitious look around showed him that allies were few and far on the ground.

He'd had support at the beginning of term when everybody had expected him to challenge Malfoy over captainship. Harry's eyes brushed the rest of his team, stopping for a moment on Christian Vaisey's cold face. The fifth year - a brilliant chaser and easily Malfoy's equal on a broomstick - had offered to back Harry, together with a handful of people who wanted to try out for the team, but not put up with Malfoy's methods. Disappointed by Harry's refusal, they would think it only fair that Malfoy was now cementing his authority at Harry's expense.

Harry exhaled and closed his eyes for a second. Last night's session with Snape had torn his memories loose until they floated disjointly around inside his brain. He'd been way too exhausted for proper Occlumency, even more for a seven-hour match, and now he wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed and let sleep soothe his feverish thoughts. Best get this over with.

"No." He met Malfoy's pale eyes. "You're my captain. If you think hitting me is fair, you have the right." His lips felt puffy, reluctant to form the hated words.

There was no use in fighting. At best, he'd make his escape and have to deal with vengeful ambushes in dark corners for the next few months. At worst, they'd just overpower him and beat him over the common room table for all to see. Even Harry's reputation wouldn't survive that.

Malfoy smirked and patted Harry's cheek. "Fair is for Gryffindors, Harry. But oh yes, I think you deserve it."

A churning, hot feeling rose in Harry's gut as he felt the trap close around him. He glared at Malfoy. First names belonged in bed, not in the common room. Malfoy grinned unapologetically and pointed to the door that led down to the dormitories. "Sixth year boys' dorm. Now."

As Harry turned, eyes still lowered, a harsh voice broke the breathless silence.

"Who says you're even going to punish him in your dorm, Malfoy?" Marius Higgs challenged from the fifth-year table.

The Higgs brothers had been on the war path ever since Snape had replaced their eldest, Terence, with Harry as Seeker at the beginning of his second year. Although Snape hated Harry like nobody's business, he was also very keen on the Quidditch Cup and enjoyed boasting about Slytherin's victories in front of Professor McGonagall.

"Yes, Malfoy," Higgs's younger brother Reginald threw in, face staring up aggressively from under a shock of sandy hair. "He's your lover, isn't he?"

There were appreciative snickers from the crowd of fifth-years, and Harry felt his ears burn under their cover of inky hair. Everybody had messed around with Malfoy, well, everybody who had managed to catch Draco's picky eye. That didn't make them 'lovers'.

Malfoy turned to face the older Higgs, a frozen expression on his face and one hand on his wand. Crabbe and Goyle stepped up behind him like Chasers lining up in a Hawkshead attack formation. Harry's skilled eye caught Zabini and Parkinson, inching closer to the tapestry that hid the exit to secure a retreat should it become necessary. Oh yes, Malfoy had come into this prepared!

Harry threw the Higgses a look out of half-closed eyes that made both boys' backs stiffen with apprehension, and put his hand over the robe pocket with his own wand.

"I have my yearmates as witnesses if you're worried about Potter getting off too easy," Malfoy drawled, smiling the teeth-filled smile that had reduced unruly first years to tears. "I'd invite you along, but I don't want my room contaminated by a worthless squib." He brushed an imaginary piece of lint off his robe sleeve. "Now, if you'd excuse me - I've got a Seeker to discipline."

Higgs looked as if he was about to burst a blood vessel or go for his wand any second, even though Malfoy was well-guarded and obviously ready for a fight. The crowd around Reg Higgs actually had to grab his arms. Malfoy gave them his most acid-dipped sneer and nodded at Harry.

"But I'll give you one thing, Potter," he promised. "We'll get Weasley for setting his Beaters on you - soon." Next to Malfoy, Crabbe was cracking his knuckles appreciatively.

Harry nodded, still wary. The thought of Ron Weasley still gave him a sting ever since the boy had coolly refused his hand on the Hogwarts Express on their first trip to school. And then had come second year with Harry's stint as the alleged Heir of Slytherin. Even now, Ronald Weasley was adamantly convinced that Harry had somehow been responsible for what had happened to his sister. Although Harry had rescued the silly Gryffindor chit!

In his early years, Harry had sometimes wondered how things would've played out if he'd taken the Sorting Hat's offer for Gryffindor... If he hadn't run into Draco and his father searching for a way onto Platform 9 3/4... If Weasley hadn't brushed off Draco so rudely that Harry felt he had to intercede for his new acquaintance... Then he might compete with Ronald Weasley now instead of plotting to take revenge.

Harry could see it, in a moment's flash. Weasley, thrown face-down over the mahogany top of a table, hands bound before him with a Slytherin tie, gagged with his own red-golden one cutting into the corners of his mouth, silencing his curses. Saw the belt cut across Weasley's freckled buttocks, saw him writhe under the blows.... Something warm squirmed in the pit of Harry's stomach. Yet another image Snape couldn't be allowed to find in his mind.

Malfoy nodded, a tiny smirk on his lips as if he had picked up on Harry's mental image just fine. "Out, Potter," he commanded softly.

Harry preceded him to the door, ducking between Zabini and Parkinson, who brought up the rear behind Crabbe and Goyle. Without a word they escorted Harry to the sixth year dormitory, losing Pansy in front of the entrance to the girls' dormitories before coming to a halt at the portrait entrance under the painted frown of a wand-brandishing Salazar Slytherin. The portrait didn't comment as they entered.

Harry stopped in the middle of the room, longingly staring at his four-poster. Theodore Nott, always notoriously disinterested in Quidditch, raised his head from his copy of Viridian's Curses and Counter-Curses and lifted a lazy eyebrow.

"Get outside and make sure nobody tries to interrupt," Malfoy ordered his bodyguards.

Goyle threw Harry an apologetic look on his way to the door, which Harry answered with a moderate glare. The pair had let him down on the pitch, but then Harry had underestimated Ronald Weasley just as much. He was glad that Crabbe and Goyle wouldn't be watching. They were about as impervious to pain as wooden logs, and about as tolerant for weakness in others - Malfoy always excepted. And whatever Malfoy would do, Harry knew with dread prickling all over his back that he'd do his damnedst to provoke weakness, for a myriad of reasons.

Malfoy shrugged out of his school robe and sat down on the sofa before the fireplace, clad in trousers and shirt. His tie was crumpled and the ends of his hair were still curling inwards with humidity from the post-match shower.

He crooked his finger at Harry. "Come here, Potter."

Harry obeyed, a very cold look on his face. Malfoy noticed it and smiled. "Drop your trousers, Harry."

Face suffused with heat, Harry shrugged out of his robes and fumbled with his belt. He felt as if he had two left thumbs, but finally managed to get the trousers off and step out of them. He kept his eyes firmly on Malfoy's knees, even as a muffled snicker came from behind. He couldn't distinguish whether it was Zabini or Nott - they were probably both grinning.

"Pants too," Malfoy added lazily.

Gritting his teeth, Harry snarled, "Malfoy!"

"I don't like doing things by halves." The infernal bastard shrugged and leaned into the pillows in a casual sprawl. "You promised to submit to your captain - would you rather I dragged you out and thrashed you in the common room for all to see?"

Harry took a few deep breaths and tried not to think of his wand, just within reach inside his robe. It wasn't the trashing he was worried about, even if he felt bruised already and less than resilient after a gruelling match. No, Harry was all too aware that Malfoy liked him without his pants. And this whole setup was exactly the warped thing Malfoy enjoyed getting up to in bed, which tended to leave Harry squirming with shame afterwards at his own reaction.

He pushed his pants down, glad that there was hardly any response in his nether regions. His shirt tails awkwardly tickled his bottom and prick.

"Over my lap," Malfoy purred, one pointy canine digging into his lower lip as he inspected Harry's half-naked form.

When Harry didn't obey quickly enough, Malfoy shot forward like a snake and caught Harry's tie, pulling him in. Harry stumbled and had to brace himself against Malfoy's thigh.

"Now, Harry..." Malfoy hooked one long leg around Harry's calf, trapping him in place.

Ears burning with mortification, Harry lowered himself into a half-crouch over Malfoy's lap. It left his upper body bent over the armrest, while his legs were stretched out on the couch. It also, Harry realised as he placed his hands onto the pine-green carpet for balance and felt the blood rush into his upside-down head, left his rump perking up obscenely over Malfoy's thighs.

Malfoy spread his legs a bit, then closed them again, trapping Harry's hapless prick in a nest of soft, but still somewhat scratchy wool. Reflexively, Harry pushed himself up and tried to squirm away. The bastard pushed him back down and tugged at the hairs at Harry's neck.

"Behave, or I'll ask Nott and Zabini to hold you down."

Harry froze at the sound of Zabini's low laugh, and stopped struggling. Get it over with, he thought at Malfoy, going limp with resignation.

Harry heard his enemy mumble a spell, and craned his head around when something zoomed over from the direction of Malfoy's four-poster. Malfoy caught his look, grinned, and grabbed it out of the air. It was his Re'em hair brush with its permanent Shining Spell, a much-displayed school entering gift from Narcissa Malfoy that Pansy had always coveted madly. It wasn't the golden bristle, however, that made Harry nervous, but the polished hardwood back of the brush with its silver inlay of the Malfoy dragon.

Malfoy slid the brush over Harry's bare bottom, and Harry felt the tingle of cold metal even though the inlay was fused seamlessly with the wood.

"Ready?" the bastard whispered, a chuckle tittering in his voice.

Harry braced himself against the carpet and replied with a muffled, "Fuck you."

Malfoy stroked the tense skin between Harry's shoulder blades. "Thanks for the offer - I'll keep it in mind."

Harry was glad he had the upholstery to hide his face against; being spanked with a bloody hairbrush like a girl was just too humiliating. Heck, Malfoy had probably played the same little game with Pansy before!

The back of the brush, when it came down on his right arse cheek, hurt like bloody hell. Harry sucked in a sharp lungful of air, only to expel it in a gasp as Malfoy brought it down on his left cheek with a meaty sound. He reflexively pushed into Malfoy's lap to escape the full force of the third smack, and felt Malfoy's hardness underneath the wool of his trousers. Yes, Malfoy would get off on a thing like that, at the sight of Harry's arse displayed for him, and even more so on the tremble of pain that tensed the lines of Harry's back.

The spanks stung like hell before spreading a surge of heat into Harry's buttocks that was almost, almost pleasant. Or would be, if Harry had time to savour it, but Malfoy placed his blows in quick succession so that he raw pain had no time to dissipate. Harry dreaded each impact, gnawing on his lower lip to keep from making pained noises. Who'd thought a simple brush could hurt so much? But of course it wasn't a simple brush but a family heirloom protected by an Unbreakable Charm, which made it so agonisingly hard.

The sheer force of the blows sent Harry's buttocks ablaze, and he cringed with mortification as the heat spread through his groin and he felt his prick respond. Malfoy felt it too, the sick fuck, and took a moment to rearrange his thighs until his own hardness pressed right up against Harry's. It was all Harry could do to stifle a groan.

And yet he yipped softly as Malfoy sought out the firm skin on top of Harry's left thigh just below the swell of his buttock, and delivered three sharp smacks to the very same spot until the skin felt as if it were blistering.

Harry sucked in shaky gasps through his mouth. His nose was clogging up and tears stood in his eyes. He knew Malfoy would continue until Harry cried or screamed, just like Flint had done, and knew he should probably just give the bastard what he wanted. But he was Harry Potter, Slytherin's uncrowned legend who didn't openly rule his House just because he'd never made a bid for it. His lip was cracked and bled, but he scrunched up his face and forced himself to keep silent.

Despite the pain, Harry's prick burrowed into Malfoy's lap, propelled forward with every crack of the brush against his flesh. Every time he clenched his buttocks to prepare for another smack the sensitive organ rubbed harder against Malfoy's trousers. He could feel the steady movement of Malfoy's hips, grinding up against Harry's hardness without ever letting up on the blows. He had the whole sweeping expanse of Harry's arse and thighs at his disposal, and set about transforming Harry's skin into blazing, liquid fire. The sharp smacking sounds hurt Harry's ears until he flinched as much from the sound as from the pain. His head was muzzy and his face hurt from trying not to scream. He couldn't suppress yelps and whimpers now, even knowing that Malfoy would drink them in.

Harry struggled weakly, trapped between Malfoy's unforgiving hand on his back and the bespelled brush, while helpless fury bubbled inside him - it wasn't fair, he'd been hurt, he was hurting and it was all too much and how could he be leaking onto Malfoy's trousers as he beat him! He screamed and sobbed, beating and clawing at the carpet just to distract himself from the spiralling twin agony in his arse and in his groin, while the blows never once let up or slowed until he writhed, his neck and spine a single painful curve, and spilled himself into the cradle of Malfoy's lap with a sound like a dying cat in the gutter.

The brush clattered onto the coffee table, and Malfoy expelled a harsh breath. He grabbed Harry's flaming arse cheeks with both hands, kneading them brutally and tearing another shriek from Harry's throat. It felt as if his whole bottom was splashed with fire, and he twisted madly under the cruel fingers. Malfoy's hips gave one hard upward thrust, then he buried his face against Harry's neck, pressing his mouth against sweat-soaked skin, and came, nails digging into Harry's shirt sleeves. The warm spill soaked his already soiled trousers.

It took a long moment before the shocks stopped tearing through Malfoy and he straightened up, pulling Harry's ill-used body up into a half-kneeling position. Harry frantically tried to stifle his sobs, mortified at the thought of breaking down in public even as his arse and thighs blazed as if his skin was going to burst, and his head thrummed madly from crying and hanging down over Malfoy's lap.

"It's all right now," Malfoy murmured, gruffly brushing sweat-soaked strands of hair out of Harry's face.

Malfoy's fingers were hot on his chin, forcing his head up to look at the room. It was empty except for the two of them. At one point, Malfoy must have ordered Zabini and Nott outside, while Harry had been too caught-up in pain to notice.

Harry surrendered to the broken wail that tore at the back of his throat and fisted his hand in Malfoy's shirt, burying his face against Malfoy's chest and let the sobs shake him as they wanted. He hurt so much and his brain was a mess and he'd let his house down and the thought of having to kill Voldemort weighed on him like a leaden coffin lid. He didn't want to fail anyone, not Draco, not even Dumbledore, and most of all he didn't want to die! He was hardly aware he was soaking the collar of Malfoy's shirt.

Still Malfoy's arms were tight around him as he cried, and after a while the sobs turned to occasional hiccoughs and then quietened into deep breaths. Harry kept curling there, half on Malfoy's lap to protect his blazing backside, until Malfoy gently shoved him off and to his feet.

He didn't let go of Harry's arm, though, as he steered Harry's body over to his four-poster. Harry stumbled along, still in shirt tails with his bottom half naked and his prick dangling spent between his legs. Malfoy drew back the coverlet and urged Harry in onto his stomach. The linen felt blissfully cool under Harry's flushed skin.

When Malfoy disappeared back outside the curtains, the loss of his presence hit Harry like ice water. Suddenly, his arse hurt a lot more and the bad thoughts began to bubble up in his brain again. Then Malfoy's blond head reappeared and a soft, cool washcloth was shoved into Harry's hand. He pressed it against his face, luxuriously cool and soothing his forehead and his swollen nose. He wished he had some for his arse, too, but it would probably send steam upwards. At last, Malfoy pulled the cloth out of Harry's fingers which kept kneading it aimlessly, and banished it to wherever it had come from.

Harry refused to look at him throughout, and just ducked under the coverlet as Malfoy spread it over him. It stung where it touched his bottom, but felt nice.

"Sleep, Potter," Malfoy muttered.

When he made to turn away, Harry's hand shot out and caught his wrist. He didn't say anything, but he looked up at last, and knew his eyes were pleading. He couldn't be alone, not tonight.

Malfoy sighed softly and brushed his fingertips against Harry's cheek. Then he leaned in and brushed his mouth over Harry's lips before shrugging out of his shirt and much-abused trousers and climbing into the bed next to Harry.

If Harry had been left alone to think about what had happened, he knew he'd feel like starting to wail all over again. But just lying there, basking in heat and the delicious lingering sting of his skin, he felt loose and drowsy and, well, as if he'd never be worried again. He nestled his face a little bit closer against Draco's collarbone, wrapping himself up in the scent of soap and sweat and cologne.

Draco sighed again and wrapped an arm around his middle, pulling him closer.

"Next time, come to me directly when you need it," he whispered, stroking Harry's hair where it curled damply against his neck.

Harry's cracked lip stung as it settled into a weak smile. No apology, and a healthy dose of manipulation, and yet Draco was right. He exhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

"I will."

~ finis~

**Author's Note:**

> There's a loose sequel to this, called "Fishing Expedition".


End file.
